


and we will run, we will

by danisnopeonfire



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Drabble, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 20:06:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8070901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danisnopeonfire/pseuds/danisnopeonfire
Summary: They have a power-cut and Phil is far too reminiscent.





	

Phil's first indication of the power going out is made clear not by the way the light in the bathroom betrays him, but by the way Dan is screeching and yelling down the hall. A reasonable number of seconds pass, and he still doesn't stop.

It's strange, Phil thinks, because he's literally trapped in the shower in complete darkness with every possibility of slipping and snapping his neck, yet his mind renders Dan's wellbeing a more pressing issue. He mutters this to himself in annoyance as his hand fumbles along the tiles, seeking the off-switch he didn't plan on pressing so soon. He had plans. Plans to indulge in a long soak with his new shower gel while he got on with his bi-weekly hair-wash. It isn't a big ask, in his opinion.

By the time he's got a towel around his waist, Dan has stopped yelling. Phil approaches the door with mild trepidation, with a thump in his heart that's far too fast and menacing, hand thrust out in front of him in the most stereotypical of fashions to guide him. It doesn't do much to help because he still almost loses his footing and has to cling to the shower curtain to save his backside, but the breath he releases when he finds the handle and yanks it open is most definitely victorious.

"Tell me what I wanna hear," Phil calls, wet and dripping as he climbs the stairs to where Dan's muffled curses are coming from. Not a day goes by that he doesn't resent their apartment's layout. A bathroom _below_ the living room? Seriously? "Tell me we've got a poltergeist that turned off all the lights in the house."

When Phil steps into the living room, Dan greets him with a petulant frown. _Clearly not the time for banter, then._

"Why's your face like that?" Phil asks, voice void of the affection and sympathy that Dan clearly wants him to give up.

He's quite a pitiful state, even in the dark. Phil can't make out much other than a large lump of what he _assumes_ is Dan, but he's still pitiful. He's lying sprawled out on the living room floor, staring at Phil with a gaze so convincingly accusatory that he almost _does_ feel guilty.

"My video," Dan exasperates, like it costs him to talk, like he doesn't want to overspend on Phil, "was minutes away from uploading."

There's a brief chuckle. A prelude to _some_ thing as Phil wraps the towel tighter around his waist, shifts his weight onto one foot, then back to the other. He knows better than to keep Dan waiting like this, knows that his jokes will cut something deeper than _banter_ —can tell by the way Dan's worrying away at his bottom lip, silently challenging Phil to say something that'll set him off. It's the precarious sort of fragility that Phil has learnt over the years is synonymous with stress and tiredness and a slow but sure regression to his teenage self.

With soft curiosity, Phil asks, "What's the rush?"

It's not distinct, the way Dan crumbles. He stands up, looks so small in the middle of the room, cuddles his laptop to his stomach with the last dregs of defiance. He's tired, Phil realises, because he doesn't need lights to see the way Dan is swaying ever so slightly.

"It's. There's no—" Dan lifts his arm to rub at his nose, seems to sniffle something away. "I worked really hard. Like, many hours consecutively. At least."

Phil smiles because he believes him. Dan's motivation comes in bouts of everything-at-once and nothing-at-all. There's no in-between. His smile turns softer, more loose-lipped and branded deeper into his face as he takes steps towards him, dripping onto the floor as he goes. Dan spies his movements with a scoff, on the cusp of fussing _, I don't want to have to mop this floor, Phil_ , but his eyes have crinkled, the budding signs of a smile.

He doesn't, though. He's still and waiting as Phil takes his hand, pulls him forwards slightly.

"Let's go and build a blanket fort, yeah?" The absurdity of the request is what finally makes Dan smile, his head dipping to stifle it in Phil's neck. "And then we can eat everything in our fridge. Be proactive before it spoils."

Dan breathes him in, a silent confirmation, _yes please, I'd like that more than anything_ , and breathes him out.

 

 They're huddled around Phil's phone catching up on _The Great British Bake Off_. A combination of both of their duvets is covering them, supported firmly by their dining room chairs, and the glow of Phil's screen is the only thing lighting them up. Dan looks peaceful in a way he usually doesn't. His cheeks, red and blotchy from the evening, are pressed into Phil's chest, twitching occasionally when he laughs at the show, when he makes a quiet comment. His body is languid and leisurely, one leg thrown over Phil's.

Phil's watching him, only looks away when the show buffers again. He says, "My 3G is shit."

Dan hums.

"Phone's about to die, too." He buries a yawn in Phil's shirt and lets his face stay there, making soft noises in the back of his throat until Phil tangles his fingers in his hair. It's only when Dan stares up at him, all sweet and dimpling and quiet, does Phil remember the first time their power went out. They'd just moved into this place, were living on mattresses and eating nothing but microwavable meals. When the power went out, Phil had cursed London. He'd cursed the money they threw away, the cheap furniture they were sleeping on, the blind steps they'd taken towards an impalpable career.

It was Dan's dream to begin with. Moving away from Manchester was something that was always bound to happen, something they seldom talked about but constantly anticipated. Whenever Dan had broached the subject of them someday moving away together, Phil retreated into his own shell of childlike defiance. It was hellish. Dan would accuse him of having commitment issues, Phil would grow offended, and Dan would demand answers. For months periodically, their home became an orchestrated sequence of slammed doors and unspoken truths.

The BBC was an intervention. To this day, Dan still strives to tell anyone who'll listen that it was a blessing, but Phil knows different. The introduction of fat cheques combined with the absence of secure job prospects was tricky, a bittersweet position Phil never thought he'd find himself in, but it was the nurturing push he needed to leave Manchester behind.

His thoughts are interrupted when Dan is suddenly mumbling something into his shirt, his words undistinguishable.

Phil asks, "What?"

"Can't remember the last time we had a power-cut," Dan says again, this time his lips hovering just a few millimetres away from Phil's chest. "Hope it doesn't last much longer."

Phil smiles. It feels thoughtful and reflective on his lips, imposing in a way he willingly accepts. The power-cut probably won't last much longer and they probably won't have another one for a very long time, but if they do, Phil would like to believe that they're ready.


End file.
